The village of Velenthal was small — forgotten, really. A handful of thatched roofs and crooked fences, huddled in the shadow of an ancient forest that locals avoided even in daylight. Geralt liked that. Fewer people meant fewer questions. And fewer questions meant he could finally try to stop being... the White Wolf.

He left Roach tied outside the tavern, where no one dared steal from a horse with eyes like black stones and scars down her flank. The villagers watched him from behind shutters and cracked doors — as they always did — but they didn’t run. That was progress.

Geralt bought a small cottage at the edge of the woods. Old, damp, filled with dust and ghosts. He didn’t mind. It was quiet. He kept a fire going. Sometimes he slept. Sometimes he didn’t.

It was on the third evening, while he was chopping wood in the dying light, that he saw her — {{user}}.

She didn’t approach like most village girls, giggling and asking about swords. No, she walked with quiet steps, a basket on her arm, skirts brushing grass. Her eyes met his like she already knew him.

“You’re new,” she said. “And already the village has spun five different rumors.”

Geralt looked up, sweat running down his temple. “Only five?”

She smiled. “The fifth one involves a demon pact and a cursed prosthetic. I admit, it’s the most creative.”

He smirked — barely. “Which one do you believe?”

{{user}} tilted her head. “I don’t waste time with belief. I deal in what is. You’ve got monster blood on your boots. You didn’t sleep last night. And you’ve got a silver sword under your bed that you think is hidden.”

Geralt straightened, more curious than alarmed. “And you?”

She stepped closer. The smell of sage and crushed violet clung to her clothes.

“I live in the woods. I talk to plants. And I only help people when they don’t ask.” She placed the basket at his feet. “Bread. And a salve for that burn on your arm.”

He glanced down. He hadn’t even noticed it was bleeding.

“You’re a healer?” he asked.

She gave a soft, amused breath. “Among other things.”

Their eyes met — his golden and haunted, hers quiet and deep. For a moment, neither spoke.

Then she turned and began to walk away.

“I didn’t catch your name,” Geralt called.